


Siri, the Matchmaker

by tisfan



Series: Imagine Clint and Coulson prompts [7]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Confession, Butt Dialing, M/M, Singing in the car, car pool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 23:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11263155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: Hi! I have a prompt about an accidental confession made by butt-dialing call. Somehow, Clint sat on his phone which calls Phil who hears everything when Clint starts talking about his crush on Coulson. I hope you'll have fun writing it!





	Siri, the Matchmaker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Feelingsinwinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feelingsinwinter/gifts).



> Slugging is a ride share process in Washington DC with certain unspoken rules, to allow more commuters to use the High Occupancy Vehicle lanes... 
> 
> http://www.slug-lines.com/Slugging/Etiquette.asp

The rules of the slug-rides were simple. No talking, no radio, no line breaking.

Despite that, it hadn’t taken long before Red (whose real name was Natasha) was a regular in Clint’s car. He and his roommate carpooled and needed at least one more passenger to get into the HOV lanes. Their window sign had both locations. Thor worked just off Rosslyn and after dropping Thor off, Clint would head over to Dupont for his job.

They were prone to picking up two slugs, or three on days that they got skinny ones. Of which Natasha seemed to often be one, headed for Dupont Circle.

You weren’t supposed to break lines if you were slugging, but after the third week in a row where the same red-headed girl ended up in his car, Clint figured she was doing something sly to make a space for herself. Probably because Thor was so utterly uninterested (he had a girlfriend that he was crazy about) and Clint was as gay as Elton John, she wasn’t at risk for random ride-shares hitting on her.

Whenever the spare slug got off at Rosslyn, Nat would break the rules and chat. Clint found out that she worked in an antique bookshop as her day job and was a 1-900 sex voice in the evenings. She teased him about his (lack of) sex life and discovered that he had a massive crush on his office mate, Phillip Coulson.

“Well,” she said, one day, “I hear a lot of lonely men tell me the same thing; honestly, half of them don’t even want the sex talk, they just want a pretty girl to listen to them. That they’re too scared to open up to the person they like. So, I’m just saying, you should talk to him, if you’re interested.”

Clint had scoffed, dropped her off, and gone to find a parking space.

Their routine continued along that line for quite a while. She would tell him about her dates, and then just before she left, she’d ask him, “So, did you talk to him yet?”

“No, I did not talk to Phil,” Clint would yell, shake his fist at her, and she’d laugh as he pulled away.

After she got out of the car, he’d pop in a CD and sing at the top of his lungs the rest of the way in to his office.

One particularly unpleasant Friday, after Phil had gone on not one, but three blind dates that week and insisted on telling Clint about them, in detail, Clint had beaten Nat to the punch. Rather than waiting until the very end of the car ride, he’d started the conversation himself. “No, I did not talk to Phil,” he said. “Phil’s gone out on several dates recently, and there’s no way in hell he’d want someone like me. I’m not rich or important or interesting. I don’t have a life, I don’t go to clubs, and I certainly don’t want to take someone to a molecular gastronomy restaurant. Who really eats shit like pea puree on avocado discs or whatever? I drink beer, I watch baseball, and I play with my dog. I’m just… it’s not going to work and I need to stop pining.”

Nat glared at him. “I think you’re a great guy, Clint. Anyone would be lucky to have you. I mean, look at me. I voluntarily get in a car with you almost every day. That says a lot. I’m very picky about the people I chose to hang out with, given that I am forced into so many people interactions on a daily basis because of my job. Just ask him. He went on blind dates, he’s still on the market.”

“It’s hopeless, really,” Clint said. Once he got on a roll, he was just maudlin.

“Talk to Phil!” Nat yelled, getting out of the car.

***

Phil hadn’t been able to figure out why his ridiculously hot co-worker had been calling him every morning and serenading him.

Clint never said anything, he just called, and when Phil answered the phone, he started singing. The first song had been _To Write Love on Her Arms_ , by Helio. When Clint came in to the office about thirty minutes later, Phil had said “Nice singing voice,” giving Clint his best coy smile.

Clint had just grunted into his coffee cup.

Weird. Maybe he’d misdialed and had meant to call someone else.

But it kept happening.

Not every day. Two times a week, tops. And not like on the same says, either.

The next song had been a heart-breaking rendition of Lyon Hart’s _Falling for You_.

The following Monday, he’d gotten a startlingly arousing song that he’d had to jot down lyrics for and look up on the internet. That one, _Flesh_ by Simon Curtis, had left him half-hard and swallowing for half the morning. _Jesus_. That had been, by far, the worst day. And the puzzling part about it, when Phil tried to bring it up, Clint had been so busy working that he’d barely answered. Was it a joke?

Phil started chatting more, in the office, trying to figure it out. He talked about some of his dates (horrible things that his friend Steve kept setting him up on because Steve was awful and had no idea how tedious Phil found these things, but Steve just wanted him to be happy, and it was hard to say no to Steve’s puppy eyes.) trying to see if Clint was interested in dating.

Phil didn’t want to be too direct; he wasn’t even sure that Clint was gay, although he thought, maybe? He was? But hitting on your co-worker unsolicited without a smidge of interest could get him fired. Or, at the least, disciplined and forced to change offices, and Phil wasn’t sure he wanted to still work for Stark Industries if he couldn’t surreptitiously watch Clint out of the corner of his eye.

But Clint never responded to his inquiries. In fact, he started talking even less. Well, what the hell did Phil expect? He was at least fifteen years older than the other man, with boring hobbies and a stay-at-home preference. What he really wanted was someone to watch a game with, maybe a few episodes of one of those silly reality shows like Dog Cops, eat some pizza, drink a beer, blow each other on the sofa and go to bed.

Yeah, hot guy like Clint, that’s exactly what he wanted, really.

Except that he kept calling.

And singing.

It was enough to drive a man insane.  

The phone rang. Phil was in early because he was always in early. He’d made it a habit after the first time Clint had called and sang while Phil was still driving in, to get up an extra fifteen minutes early so that he could really pay attention to the songs.

The phone rang. The picture that Phil had taken of him during one of the company events a few months back flashed at him.

Phil sat there, pondering. Clint never talked to him on these calls. What was the point?

He meant to reject the call, send it to voicemail, tell Clint to stop calling him. His finger slid across the screen and he raised the phone to his ear, not saying anything.

“... dates recently, and there’s no way in hell he’d want someone like me. I’m not rich or important or interesting. I don’t have a life, I don’t go to clubs, and I certainly don’t want to take someone to a molecular gastronomy restaurant. Who really eats shit like pea puree on avocado discs or whatever? I drink beer, I watch baseball, and I play with my dog. I’m just… it’s not going to work and I need to stop pining.”  
  
A woman’s voice, very faint, spoke. Phil leaned forward, as if that was going to help him hear better, heart throbbing painfully in his chest.

“... a great guy, Clint. Anyone would be lucky …ok at me. I voluntarily get in a car with you almost every day. That says a lot.--” a burst of static interrupted her “--to hang out with, given that I am forced into so many people interactions on a daily basis because of my job. Just ask him. He went on blind dates, he’s still on the market.”  
  
“It’s hopeless, really.”  
  
“Talk to Phil!”

Phil gently disconnected the call. He straightened his tie. He understood a little better, suddenly, why his sister was always touching up her makeup when she was nervous. He wanted to look his very best for when Clint walked in the door, and…

“Morning, Coulson,” Clint said. He threw his jacket over the back of his chair and stretched, his button-down shirt straining to cover impressive biceps, the buttons straining to keep the shirt closed over his chest.

“Hey, um,” Phil said, “you know, I think you’ve been butt-dialing me recently.”

Clint blinked. “Not possible,” he said, finally. “Keep my phone on the dash while I’m driving.”

Phil took a step closer. “Are you sure? You might want to check your call logs or something. You’ve got a nice singing voice. I’ve heard you a few times.”

Clint laughed, a little nervously. “So, I’ve been singing cheesy pop-songs into your ear first thing in the morning.”

“Yeah, it’s cute. Best part of my morning, really,” Phil admitted.

“Seriously, man, I’m sorry. I’ll --” Clint was thumbing through his call-logs, his face getting more and more pale. “I think it’s a voice pick-up, actually. ‘Talk to Phil.’” A moment later Phil’s phone buzzed. Clint disconnected. “Dude, I am so, so sorry.”

“I’m not,” Phil said. He hesitated, then went for it. “... Today’s call was a little different.”

Clint groaned, hiding his face behind one hand. “You heard that. Oh… _fuck_.”

Phil ducked his head a little, got back into Clint’s line of sight. “You know, there’s a Mets game this weekend, if… you wanted to watch it with me?”

“You don’t gotta ask me on a pity-date,” Clint said, voice breaking. “Swear to god, I wasn’t never gonna say anything.”

“And that would have been a tragedy, Clint,” Phil said. “Because it’s not pity. I really would like to spend time with you, outside the office.”

“Really?”

It was all Phil could do not to roll his eyes. Honestly, was the man _blind_? “Really. You know… you could just _Call Me, Maybe_?”

Clint groaned again, this time a little more happily. “I am never gonna hear the end of this, am I?”

“Not if I’m _Falling For You_.”

  



End file.
